An Angel's Prayer
by Existence's Bane
Summary: Cesare prays for Chiaro. Slight Cesare/Chiaro, post Volume 7


Hello, lovely readers

_Hello, lovely readers_.

_Disclaimer_:_ I own nothing_.

_Summary_:_ Cesare unexpectedly prays for Chiaro_.

_Warning_:_ Implied boy x boy love_.

_Author's Note_:_ I am not Christian, and I made up this saint, but if I get anything wrong or you have a request, please email me at _.

Pisa

Years Ago

_A sixteen-year-old Chiaro knelt in the abandoned pews_._ His lanky form was briefly highlighted by lightening to his silent, unknown companion_._ Seconds later, thunder roared, shaking the stone floor of the cavernous cathedral_.

"_What are you doing?" Cesare demanded, coming to sit down beside him on the roughened, unpolished wood_.

_Chiaro barely flinched in surprise, and didn't bother to look up or open his eyes_._ "Praying," he murmured; an index finger and thumb stroked the black wooden bead of a rosary_.

"_Why?" When the elder didn't answer, Cesare demanded, "Does God ever answer?"_

_Chiaro didn't answer, but his mouth continued to murmur a complex prayer_._ After a few minutes, Cesare stretched his arms and strode away, off to bed presumably_.

_Chiaro finally opened one eye to stare sadly at the retreating back of his younger friend_. Please, God,_ he prayed,_ save him from himself.

Rome

1496

It was an unwritten that each cardinal be seen on St. Catherine's feast day in the Palazzo de Maria for the pope's annual speech that declared her many accomplishments. Even a Borgia could not be excepted on this significant instance.

Come high noon, the square was vivacious and full of life; laughter and cheers and prayers all wafted up to the higher balconies of one of the clergy buildings with balconies and piers for the clergymen to observe the revelry. Cries of praise and pointed fingers were directed at that building, watching the mass of red robes hang lifelessly in the hot, breezeless air.

Cesare looked quietly out at the carousing. His face was the coldest thing to be seen for miles in the Mediterranean summer heat. The white undershirt beneath his woolen, dyed red robe clung to him, pasted by salty sweat. He decided not to deign to raise a hand to dab away a thick drop of sweat that tickled his temple and fused a long lock of hair there. He knew he had the slightest flush from the searing sun above—there was no way he was going to avoid a small sunburn today, not with his deceptively delicate skin. His eyes had now thankfully adjusted to the blinding brilliance of the square. The sunlight itself reflected off jewels, bright cloth, tan stone, and water gushing from public fountains.

"Volpe," he murmured quietly to the man who had suddenly and silently appeared behind him. His voice disguised his discomfort, even if the loyal retainer knew better.

"Yes?" Even Volpe seemed affected by the extreme warmth. His voice was a bit sharper, even if the sharpness was not aimed at Cesare.

"Why is my father taking so long?" Cesare was weary of this.

"Apparently, he has come down with a slight fever. He will have to be replaced for leading the municipal prayer."

Cesare rolled his eyes behind closed lids. Of course, the pope had to be cared for, and even the smallest grievance could cause widespread panic and mass hysteria. "Tell his guards I will demean myself to do it," Cesare sighed, only half joking.

Volpe hesitated. He knew very well that his master had to interest in God. _Best to keep up pretenses anyway,_ he reasoned, and muttered, "Yes, sir."

Volpe returned a good ten minutes later. In those few moments, the festivities had gone into full, half-inebriated swing. Surrounding cardinals glanced at him curiously as Cesare strolled away—and a little jealously as he proudly walked inside the cool building. The guards, on the other hand, looked immensely relieved.

Cesare walked out to the highest balcony of stone, centered so it looked out to the entire square. It was jam-packed with people of every birth and race, but only one religion. He blinked discreetly as the sunlight burst into his irises again.

The people below and cardinals first cried out in happiness, then shock. Where was the pope? A few glared at Cesare indignantly, a few more with curious interest.

Cesare cleared his throat. He had heard his father do this countless times before, and knew he was making a bold move in the Church by performing it himself in his red robes. He felt a bit of smug satisfaction at seeing the shocked, nervous faces of his few enemy cardinals, but nothing else. He could not, and would not, allow himself to feel anything more than that these days. Unnecessary, unwanted, distracting pain lay in that road.

When the tumult of noise died down into indistinguishable murmuring, Cesare called out, "People of Rome! We gather here today to celebrate the life and death of the great St. Catherine of Tours! Let us all give thanks and pray to the Lord," he called, and as one, all the heads in Palazzo de Maria turned to the ground with a mass shuffling. It was almost comical.

It was strange for the square—which had been stridently loud since before dawn—to be this quiet. Cesare could hear nothing at all, except for the call of a crow harking above.

It was five minutes into the praying that Cesare risked glancing up through his lashes. No one was finished praying, if they were praying at all. _Pretenders,_ Cesare scorned, and tilted his face up to stare at the impossibly blue sky. After all, no one but Volpe would see exactly what he was doing up here.

But then, maybe they were praying. Cesare blinked and looked around. He stared at the closest cardinal, a senior man with wispy white hair. His wrinkled face was even more crumpled, for he had his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His chapped lips murmured a hissing prayer. Cesare found, looking around, that almost all the people that he looked at were in fact praying.

Cesare again tilted his face to the sky. Maybe he too would pray, just once…Just to prove to his unexpectedly unsettled mind that nothing would change. He just needed to admit something…

He was suddenly caught off-guard. He wondered what he _should_ pray for. He didn't have to think long at all.

Cesare closed his suddenly wet but not tearing eyes and silently prayed.

_God, protect your angel_._ My angel_._ Don't take him back yet, not before me_._ There's something I have to do_.

_I love him so much, so, please don't let him die_.


End file.
